18/04/2014 - GLASSY-FACED EUROTRASH

Glassy-faced Eurotrash tend to sit across from me on long trips through thin passageways. They carry books featuring glorious faces of pale beauties with their magnificent eyes whited out to spare the natural hegemony of society from any irrational upheaval. The terms are clear on the arrival of Eurotrash, you come in ice cream trucks or you come in nothing at all, which is to say naked. The professional work ethic of these people are what we on the council count on when dealing with them on a day-to-day basis. Werewolves are guarding our side of polarity and these  chaps and their old man chins are comparatively whimpering. This is the complete closet, the commando elite that trains itself to be endearing to the toy-wielding popularity contest audience that regularly rubs down this byway with surly fingertips. Nothing is rosy in this film-watching racket so the Eurotrash better be ready to stock up our DVD collection with classics and nothing but classics. We want the kinds of films that we wouldn’t normally watch unless high or inside a suitcase with no other means of pliable escape. I don’t know about the rest of you but my glands are retroactively conspiring with my nether regions without kindly sending a memo or tying up the little ones’ bootlaces.

The food chain ends in breast implants and the little Indian that resides in our poetry books is entirely indecisive about his heritage, picking and choosing his levels of audacious niceness. You can’t say fairer than that, his feathers tell us or maybe its his turban or maybe it’s his fancy watch with the hands holding fast every quarter of an hour. We are cruising by barmpots and tough accents to chew on while starting an illicit affair with an illicit alien of illicit intentions on every illicit day of the week. The week itself does little to stump our games and jokes. The picture we get in our minds is of large breasts that open up roof tiles so that the rest of the household might access heaven-sent beer. Lager comes from Aldridge and not very frothy. The well-wishers try to sell the taps like they would the brand but the brand isn’t quite as sticky as it once was and that’s probably down to the taps. Drips, you see; too many droplets on the phone conversation and not enough detail to hammer in.

Drawbridges are becoming exactly like everything else and that’s almost definitely down to the Eurotrash. Museums and granddad aftershave linger in their wake like shopping bags from some Godforsaken outlet that doesn’t sell Blu-Ray or blowfishes. Show a little initiative to the rest of the planet and you know what you get? You get rickets and a bloated nose because of those rickets. I don’t know, something irregular happens and medical science can’t quite catch up or scratch its head into gear. There’s something to be said about the breakthroughs of foxy ladies recently though, they swallow fire fighter catalogues by the dozen.

17/04/2014 - COULD WELL BE LIFE

                     Could well be life within the old hands, understand? You have nothing worth a boing or a fixed point in heretical time but that’s not your fault. I crucified your patron saint and that’s my bag on my face and the bones will rattle well for a while underneath it. I could say that Caesar told me to do it but then I was an evil little bastard at the time of deciding and self-destruction was as misguided as washing my hands entirely of a fairly good chap. He set the rover going though, did your old saint, he revved up and started putting his way through to the slices of shards of ingratiated glass that filled the hearts of many including my nimble self. At least he didn’t turn his cheek or else we’d probably still be putty today with all the structural integrity of moth-eaten curtains.

Curtains. That reminds me of a date that cannot be enlisted, that shouldn’t ever be corrupted by the meekest carat of gold shining down with deliverance and mysterious ulterior motives. All the precious metals do it, they have a nasty temper among them which they hand around and palm whenever the likes of my people come waddling along.

                                                            They set us up for fall guys to trip over and that’s how Vegas works, baby, the listening devices are implanted somewhere between your hair and crown. It includes footage of specially edited seduction from one MILF to another and that’s not nearly enough for the quick or unnatural as the fire warden likes to call them. He really hasn’t been the same since the equipment manager. Welding jobs happen everywhere, you can’t bluff literature readers like you could avid fans of popular fiction. It’s not really a classic but it does have classic status; you’re wealthy and that’s absolutely destructive to your more cultured habits; as of now we married the wrong crossing guard. NONE of these are the honesty of millions, MOST of them are essentially viewed through French windows like you would a manger.

More could be said but the card factory will dedicate its green blossom gossamer underside to a sweet old lady from Quebec. Everyone who has old hands becomes sweet in Canada, it’s like a rule. Go west, my turncock, and seek out branches that’ll steal your soap bars before your fairy-dusted eyes. The piano blazes on with balls-out ineptitude that won’t even start a decent IQ test to prove the levels needed to go to lengths of adaptable strains. That was the violin just now, the foggy wind-up of tennis balls craves the slight plucking of strings to sharpen their wind resistance.

            It’s a sloppy crank in the rectory, a splat attack with the bedroom door right open and the psychology manual isn’t even an introduction to the more abstract level of cognitive therapy. This is the newfound home of lazy whiskey filled with heavy water and skirted sensationalism. See how industries quicken with brown, that won’t really apply here.

16/04/2014 - WHELP FOR CHORTLES

Whelp for chortles, groan for doldrums, ask from the bottom of your briny heart. The strings that fill the fabrics with fragrant tampering and line breaks will encase the lamp issue with canvas operations and European map terms that wouldn’t work anywhere else because of finality and the underbrush stalkers that leave our cybernetic bimbos warming up gigs for titanic bomb disclosure. The first to fart is the last to see the light of day – A FLUFF BALL. The epitaphs, the poetry and the engagement with audiences both dead and alive will tidy away horse riders with half term whimpers that ruin multiple games of cricket with a pre-announcement of match scores that are really in fact chiming in from an alternative reality but not one where cricket is a popular pastime for the young and American.After effects include Mayonnaise, Artichokes, Walnuts, Delirious Aubergines, Carrots in Rubber Jumpers, Seismic Shifts, Soil Exchange and Long Shore Continental Drift According to the Words of an Abandoned Artichoke Joke. Remains remain to be their own jailers on high shelves – THE CRICKET SCORES UNIFIED AND PERSONIFIED. The white door is shrinking into a cream window and that will eventually see the spurious alteration of a window via conversation with a conservative bathroom light switch. The motherboard has strange plans for the year quota and that’s saying something but not everything or indeed every thing that comes out of a lidless plastic bottle. The mummified remains are something to be seen from a great height descending at landfall speed. As often the sentences will wind their workaday barcodes into your blue collar stained window collection via the French salubrious thrusters that live temporarily in my garage. By the way when will you have time to take them back? They ask after you every good day and never say a breath on every other day. I stopped having bad days a long time ago. Complete misconception are a great man provided they can compile their lists into the suit of a well-meaning and credible lawyer – NO-ONE EVER. The glasses case will out and absorb out the fantasies from the fixtures and all the remaining wrinkles will turn Nordic and possibly bite with the territory of a gnat. It’s entirely selective and you look in a good dress by the way and that’s exactly what I mean to say because I say it with conviction and classified enormity. The wireless has never been more off the hook than it is right now and that’s all down to you, my mob force. Blokes love you and the centimetres aren’t quite sure what to do with you let alone make you in case you make them in the undue process. It’s a show of strength and how does it feel? If you say detectives have sexy voices then you need to clarify that statement before the real police come out and arrest your tongue and stick it in an exaggerated cartoon with thought balloons as the raison  when it’s really just a type.

15/04/2014 - LOSING COUNT IS NO BIG DEAL

Losing count is no big deal. Brothers are helpers in immaculate light, they sometimes drop stuff off for later delivery that leaves public office for impeachment. I still can clean their tardiness but that’s all that needs to be okay with membership and the sheriff that dictates the problematic from the whatsoever. We should get ourselves a dog with severe quirks and spasms that are really just abstract ways of asking what’s here or what’s anywhere without the right spanner in your hand. DON’T TOUCH THE FRESH ABRASIVES. Caress the helpers in their line of work, do the detective work for old women with lost cats and developed courier servers. You just don’t know them like I do; the cream has its reasons in the woodlands for the appropriate filing of small claims. Look at all of them: aren’t they grotesque and far worse than owing a bunch of money to a smattering of skinners. That’s why we stopper off at the apartment to find enough niceness in ice-breaking pleasure. History postpones the crooked man and his heinous business acquisitions, it makes the frailty true without consequence. IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK? THERE HAS TO BE! They shot manikins for milkshakes.
            I don’t quite say what I speak nor do I recite what I reiterate but the bytes are indeed berry-shaped and festering with secret chambermaids. Say wow to come with me, to leave the archers behind to care for the helpers and trade their every whims. Something is preying on the witches and their incriminations. Do you know how to leave it behind for the watched heartless and their sneaky noughts and crosses games that don’t really tell the disrespectful much. Can we come home for nutcrackers? I DON’T SEE WHY NOT. Hang by the business office and make a few gawky promises. We found her hair inside this like green wives and blue husbands and their alphabetical children. Have the murders meet me there where the operations lie low with eccentric circles. Save the last resort for the one who’s actually heard about you in oceans and scars. She treats me all right with quick peaks and sampled touches knobbing for burning. This is outside the woods, of course. There really is no account for taste just as there is no lark rising for tinkle glamour. Where do you buy your snowflakes? COULD YOU BE ANYMORE SCENIC! SPIDERS!

Waver waiver meanings meant – a slap on the wrist. I’ll tell you when the pudding and pie will speak up for dangled wolves that make the ride awkward for everyone involved without height restriction or named lay lines. Asterisk, you ask me questions with booming voice and falsetto aftershock but you have no right to claim my tree as your own marker in football games. GET ALONG QUIETLY NOW, GET ALONG WITH YOUR HANDS IN YOUR POCKETS AND YOUR STANCE TURNED AWAY. End of the day, end of the line, stay of execution and all that merits a jocund clap.

14/04/2014 - YOU'VE PACKED FOR THE ARMCHAIR OLYMPICS

You’ve packed for the armchair Olympics, you’ve packed the armchair accoutrements and you’ve tied down the mannerisms that will necessarily change you into the sort of woman that people compare to Autumn. You’re all set.

The rest of the trip awaits you with minor fluctuations of internet connection and fireside arguments with the doodles of lover’s past. All the glass has already been blown and now its time to simmer down and hike up that hitch before the flowerbeds lay claim to your centralised dominance. You’re going to ascribe importance to bendy straws while the dogs are looking with their ears pricked up, you just know it. You have a storeroom cupboard to strike up for miniscule minutes but you’re going to climb inside the womb metaphor instead whilst listening to heavy folk metal crunching sounds for moral support. This way for the glen. That way for the terrible movie list – 48 miles and run around with rum punch.

Download the timeout, eat the screensaver and key in the trial and tries before rugby seizes the seeing with blue cracks and unfazed zaps of a foreman’s foreskin. Momentary naps for you, one and all. Line up the shot, click the rank and watch the blossom retcon your phantom limb into the back of your specious ligament. Food shortages like glasses on bifocal noses. Sex for breakfast. Commemorative keychain. About ten minutes to evacuate your neck cricks, good time to blaspheme. Make good in your promises to raise the dead without exemption and you will receive that sense of ownership your maternal grandmother left you without. She didn’t have the right teeth in anyway and the cottaging happened regardless.

Blackboards swapped for petticoats. Hat racks traded in for anatomical etchings. All grey as the greyest Munich day. Bookmark it for closure and all future closed-hand magic shows.

As often as I like, you repeat to yourself, as often as I like. Your knife and your fork are in either hand and the microwaves has done with you. It’s a tragic overcome, a village oven glove clawing through your impatient travels. The sample on the CD is the hunch in your own personified pizzicato chords. The gun makes a start for the egg, a simile is burgeoned in your old dog’s bed. The day is won, the night is slaved, the old dog is only just waking up to his tail between his teeth. How utterly, very rubbish a sight for him.

You traipse along your own impersonated trip and you’ll keep thinking of all the wicker you see around you, in the wire fences, around the bollocks of the men who you lay with. Trees need soil for its long complexity and sore nutrients. You are on the rise, cheap and confidently trampling the permeation of whore and slag culture. You can see immediately, the colour and the ambience that results in diffuse finality. Your body lies further down the stream, holding the excess back for a wholly serious amount of catchments.

13/04/2014 - VERY PROBABLY

Very probably, guts like mush will become the new catchphrase as the titans follow their own footsteps to Armageddon. The armada of wellbeing shall flush out the wallflowers among us and tidy them into neat groves of immediate deniability. It must be deliberate and must be seen as being done deliberately or else all else is lost and we can’t get out our deposit note. The shopping centre is closed but the mall has just recently opened. It’s full of iambs and the bleeding dead who really just want to display themselves in sinful filing cabinets with guns and other drinks. Gin and tonic has gained recent popularity among them but they’re stupid creatures who smash their stupid heads into moderately stupid brick walls. There’s nothing left that even constitutes cardboard. Muster the mustard gas and we’ll play with the seeds in runny ketchup bottles. At least they got out alive while the going was a cottage on the South East bend to the outer reaches of one retching toilet. The water will green up, blue up and eventually percolate into pure iron with rainbow effects and shallow ideology. It really doesn’t hurt to have a spot check anymore but the perfect circle wants to live around the bend and will stab anyone who gets in the way, especially those who have specially baked lasagne in their positive uprising.

Are the newly weds around the corner? Often. How often? As often as it takes to reply to a chemist’s remarks on the term druggist and tincture. Who would even get that reference? Scholars of boredom. Who still even goes to school anymore? Those who don’t want to watch zombie movies 24/7 with cameras on full tilt and wifely duties going away from matters of public spirit. We need the spirited debate to get the shots in the arms to the quilted children who need it most, the swaddled imps and infants that don’t even play snap without gaunt expressions throughout the ordeal. The cream in mirrors, the tulle in every other reflective surface are the colours that run away from respectability to show us all how much of a circus light can really be. Car boot sales are enacting all over the globe as a unique result of this commonplace behaviour. Nothing to be sad about though, that is. Permanency.

                Why waste time on the food chain when fuel would be more efficient? A premium gas, a high-end luxury model that guzzles all kind of preheated asinine hold-ups and hang-ups. These guys are singing to fight to get in on that shot for eighteen healthy readers. The ancients want to provide but deep down they don’t see the side of ooh or urgh or anything half as fast as either or both multiplied. We got this, cowardly friends, we will distribute the wealth into the hands of the economic professors by eating their oomph as if it were pasted on special effects prawns. The rippers will mildew over conspiracy after seconds of grainy footage.

12/04/2014 - OATH ON A PALM TREE

Oath on a palm tree said to me: DON’T TELL NO MORE LIES.

Oath tree on a palm said to me: DO NOT TELL ANYMORE PEOPLE.

On my oath, the tree said: PALM THE LIARS, PALM THE PEOPLE.

Said oath to me via palm: AWAY WITH TREES ALTOGETHER.

 

And so began the great warming, the children let out their cupboards of white hair and set the chargers to reheat with the hope of enclosing an afterword from the reader of the pluperfect tensile strength. The polka grind goes on in the cold light of day and the coldest part of that light actually bounces along to the beat as it wears its footprints into the carpets of several lonely farmers. The womenfolk make the victims ledgers and arrange for homespun lodging in haunted creeks. Curtains flutter all around the neighbourhood at the very reconsideration of green on the flag, the neighbourhood flag but not the national one. The national one isn’t really considered a flag anymore because it’s a sigil for pretentious doorbells. Implied meaning shouldn’t ever be so fanciful, let alone start a boy band with but a mere thought. Shotguns blaze and the gospel can be heard in the rests between thudding beats. The shells ratatatat as they ricochet off of the tropical furniture. This is the wicker that made the fandango look dated, this is the wicker that eclipsed beards for plug sockets. As always, the chap with the bunged-up nasal passage is lining his moat with slippery concrete blocks because he really hates us for getting here so late and to the point. We don’t mean to beat around the bush and he doesn’t like it because apparently it’s unseemly to take people unawares like that. Our line manager wants to see more pictures of him so he can visualise the stamps it will inevitably appear on. Vinnie has time for anything.

 

VINNIE CARES THAT: tasking retrospectives takes an age.

VINNIE SCARES THAT: kindly old hag with the buck teeth for being so crass.

CARESS VINNIE: he has the kind of laser surgery we couldn’t even dream of.

VINNIE CARES NOT ABOUT: the dial-up tone on the long country road.

 

You have got two. You have gathered these two and planted their subsequent cuttings straight into the bedrock and now it’s time for that play date you’ve organised for the sick Chinese Dragon that eats all your rigatoni. The Worcester sauce is spilled right over the wrinkled furniture, the tropic furniture that hasn’t been folded up yet into burnt disposables, the palm tree’s alert neighbourhood watch. This tree has it in for you because of the last time that we crossed the farmer’s land without sufficient painting skill; we had to bargain with our barley rations. We lost our wisdom teeth on the breakout away. As you always so sweetly put it, we are royally praised for the games we wasted with commentaries of the scientific developments of yesteryear’s uglier twin. You have got two. Vinnie the palm tree, four.